Skins Like Onions, On Turtles All The Way Down
by Lena Carr
Summary: In fourteen hours, Aaron is going to leave Eric. Again. (Aaron/Eric, set in S5b)


Author's notes/warnings/etc at the end.

* * *

 _Hey._

 _So, this is incredibly stupid, but I really did have a flight to get on in three hours. And I didn't even have two minutes to spend looking at seven different editions of Millay's Sonnets. Much less half an hour, and an hour for coffee, and five minutes making out._

 _And you're not going to write, and this address you gave me is some condemned building that's not even in this zipcode. But that's all on you._

 _Me, I AM writing, and I'm in Johannesburg, as you can see from the stamp, because I'm about to go find a place to mail this. I won't be here long – my flight north leaves in a few hours. The address below is for the local Save the Children office – most of the NGOs working in the region have their mail sent there, it's safer._

 _This is easily the stupidest thing I've ever done, including that thing in Amsterdam, and you're never going to answer._

 _Have a nice life –_

 _Aaron_

* * *

The garage door was down when Aaron finally reached the house. Their house. _Home_.

Three weeks to get a supply list prioritized, and of course it had to all be re-shuffled the day before they left. Some of it made sense, yes – freon, if they could find any. And refrigerant repair manuals, to cover the gaps in their knowledge. And Mrs Neutmyer's request was routine by this point. _Comfortably_ familiar.

Even now, after three hours of tense negotiation, it was enough to make him grin, thinking of how the list stretched out to forty items on the _grab if you see it_ column, but pasta machine was _still_ there, all the way at the bottom below _burlap bags_ and _lavender seeds_.

It almost made up for the headache lurking at the back of his skull, and the feeling that leaving tomorrow was less like _exploration_ and more like _flight_.

The alleged car – the one Eric had named Old Paint, and for which Aaron's partner claimed a deep abiding affection, despite the brief and painful time that he and the ugly sedan had known each other - was in the driveway, rear bumper up against the garage door. A yellow stickie fluttered on the driver-side window, with the date and specific notes, and Henry's initials underneath.

 _Oil (5W-30 Penz) full_

 _Five tires at 43 PSI RR missing one lug_

 _Scissor jack (black) under spare tire (trunk)_

 _No wiper blades no wiper fluid_

 _Radiator full hoses okay_

 _Lights all okay (LF turn iffy)_

 _Tank full – 18.7 gal est 392 miles_

 _Keys on LF seat_

 _Good luck_

Aaron peered through the window and noted the keys were where Henry had left them. He traced the last words on the note, and left the stickie on the window.

At the front door, Aaron dug in his pocket for the keys, but it opened under his hand. _Probably someone from the Georgia group visiting, and trying to fit in_. It had taken more than six months for most people in Alexandria to shake loose the idea of locking their doors. Marge and Victor had to replace their front window twice in the middle of winter, but even the NYC natives eventually realized that it was just simpler, in this lock-smith free era, to only lock the things they had to.

In another world, the Georgia group would have been small-town natives, who never locked the front door, much less the back.

At the sound of the opening door, Eric shut the book in his lap, hung his head over the arm of the sofa and flashed a grin at Aaron, upside down. "Howdy, stranger."

"Hey, Hussy." Aaron left the door ajar behind him and stepped inside. He held Eric's head still long enough to kiss him, briefly, still inverted, before going back to shut the door and hang up his jacket.

"Bandy. You're…later than I thought you would be." Eric leveraged himself up to peer over the back of the couch as Aaron went into the kitchen. Well, at least Eric was putting effort into _pretending_ that he had stayed on the couch since early morning. The crutches had clearly been moved, and the books on the fireside rug hadn't been there at daybreak. So long as there weren't fresh bruises under Eric's clothes and the trash can was free of smashed knickknacks, Aaron was going to let it pass.

He'd already lost the two-day fight over having someone else stay over while Aaron was gone on the run.

"Sorry," Aaron threw over his shoulder. "Pre-run meeting went longer than I thought. We skipped lunch." He pulled open the fridge door.

"I got something you could eat," Eric said, in his best seductive voice. At least, _Eric_ thought it was seductive. Aaron hadn't actually seen it work on anyone who wasn't already smitten with Eric. Which had been most people, once upon a time. Before. "Something thick and meaty."

Despite himself, Aaron snorted. "Cut it out."

"What happens if I don't?" Eric asked. "Will I get..." he waggled his eyebrows, "...punished?"

"Yes. You'll sleep on the couch for a month. Alone." He stared at the fridge. "Hussy. What's in the white thing?"

"Stew. Don't take it out, it's for tomorrow night."

Aaron clenched his teeth, breathed in, then out. Eric usually cooked, just like Eric usually picked out his clothes. Not because Aaron was incompetent in the kitchen, but because Eric cared, in a way that - even when there was a world - Aaron could never bring himself to devote the effort. Eric never complained, but they both knew he didn't much like Aaron's meals. Granted, spaghetti and sauce from a jar was the typical sort of thing Aaron made, but it wasn't like there was anything _wrong_ with his cooking. And if Aaron cooked, Eric wasn't going to fall on his ass and put the barely healed bones in his foot out of alignment. "Eric. You promised you'd stay off your foot." _God, I sound just like Mother_.

There were pickles, pickled apples, pickled peppers, and pickled beets in the fridge. And a three day old heel of bread.

Eric only laughed. "Bandy-legs, I did. Carol brought it by." Eric's head disappeared back down behind the back of the couch. His voice changed tone, as if he were speaking to the ceiling instead of to Aaron. "I think it was mostly an excuse to come see Daryl, but it was nice of her anyway."

"Okay." Aaron stared at the inside of the fridge a bit longer, until the damn temperature sensor started going off. He shut the door. "Why can't we eat it tonight?"

"Because you're leaving tomorrow and so you're fixing supper tonight."

That at least made sense. And Aaron could make at least one thing that he knew Eric liked. "It's going to be spaghetti again," he warned Eric. "Maybe we should eat the stew."

"It's horsemeat."

"...oh." That was...just as well. "Aglio e olio it is." Speaking of horsemeat..."You said Carol came by to see Daryl? Did you hear what about?"

"Oh, like those two would let anything really juicy slip when I was listening. No, it was all staid platonic stone-faced seriousness over lunch. They didn't even do that eye-banging thing."

Aaron went around the end of the couch. "What are you talking about?"

Eric blinked back at him. "Daryl and Carol."

"That does it. I'm divorcing you until _Days of Our Lives_ comes back on. I can't deal with you treating the neighbors like a reality show." He sighed, stepped to the end of the couch and shoved at Eric's shoulder to make him sit up. "Was he here all day, then?"

Eric budged up with a grunt and flopped back down as soon as Aaron was settled, sprawling across Aaron's lap in a mass of lanky ginger. Aaron cut off Eric's first attempt at a reply with another kiss, and when he came up for air, Eric reached up to tweek his nose before trying again.

"Daryl was here most of the day. Constable Michonne came around, and Glenn, and they hauled him off for an hour or so. Not for a _ménage a trois_ in the duckpond – he wasn't any cleaner when he came back." Eric sighed. "For a gruff and grizzled loner, Daryl sure has a bunch of admirers."

And Eric was clearly one of them. "If I was a jealous person, I might think you had a thing for him."

"I might anyway."

Aaron slung an arm around Eric's neck and gave him a nuggie on the head.

Feebly, Eric played at trying to shove him off. "All right, all right! I give up, I give up! I promise to not run away with the smelly woodsman."

"Good. Don't you forget it." He relaxed his arm, but kept it around Eric, kept Eric's shoulder tucked up under his arm.

Eric grumbled but relaxed against him. After a minute, Eric asked, "No, really, how did it go?"

Aaron sighed. "The grid is flickering, over on the north end. One of the Georgia crew – you know the big guy, Eugene? He thinks he knows how to fix it." He rubbed a thumb along the curve of Eric's biceps. "Aiden is taking out a group tomorrow, early, going looking for parts. Some of the Georgia crew is going with – Glenn, a few others."

Eric nodded. "Maggie said that Glenn was planning on going out. She didn't have a lot of good things to say about Aiden."

"Well, that makes a lot of us. Wait, when did Maggie come by?"

"After breakfast. She wanted to see how my ankle was doing." Eric's voice stayed light, and Aaron kept his arm from tightening around him.

"Oh? Any reason she would be worried?"

"Nope. I think she was tired of the maps and charts and wanted a break. And to see Daryl's bike. But he was in a swearing mood, so we sat in here and chatted." Under Aaron's hand, Eric gradually relaxed, as the conversation drifted away from Eric's ankle.

"So, any good gossip from Monroe's office?"

"Not so much. We mostly talked about the Georgia crew." Eric shook his head. "It's really amazing, and terrible, how much they've gone through."

Aaron recognized Eric in an empathic mood, one likely to spawn a dark spell, and stepped in to head it off. "Everyone has. We all lost people."

Eric pursed his lips. "I haven't. No, don't look at me like that. I know they're probably dead, Momma wouldn't have left without my sister and Gee-Gee, and Dad was probably going back for more people he could help. But that was – it wasn't in front of me, and it was two years ago. I've had time.

"These people – they lost Sasha's brother last month. Noah put down his brother – turned into a roamer – the same day. Maggie's sister died in Atlanta the month before that, and her Dad just before that. And you saw how tight these people are. It was…it was like Tyreese wasn't just Sasha's brother, Maggie talked about him like he was her own. I think they're all hurting, missing all these people." Eric brooded a moment, head tilted back, staring at the wall and the Brownie camera hanging on the shadowbox. "Well, maybe not Daryl's brother…"

" _Daryl_ had a _brother_?" Well, that came out a bit more shocked and squeaky than Aaron had intended. It wasn't like the man was _that_ singular a specimen…

Eric craned his neck around and smirked. "Oh, right, I didn't tell you that. Sorry."

"You are a crap gossip. You're supposed to _share_."

"Keep looking at me like that and I won't."

"Okay, fine, is he still here?"

"Who?"

Aaron glared. "Daryl. Or was there someone else you wanted to talk about?"

"No, he came in after Carol left, said he'd be back at daybreak."

"Okay."

When the silence wore on, Eric twisted loose of Aaron's grip.

" _Okay_?"

Aaron sighed. "I'm sorry. Please go on."

But Eric was already shaking his head, awkwardly shoving his way out of Aaron's lap. "No, now that you're here, you can do your Mother Hen routine and help me down the steps to the garage so I can see the bike. Let me investigate it completely and I may share my hard-earned gossip."

So there was no option then but to sling Eric off the couch, fetch the crutches, and carefully guide him across the polished floor and past the stairs to the side door to the garage. Once down the steps, Eric flipped the switch to raise the garage door and let in the late afternoon light.

The whole of the garage interior had been rearranged over the last ten days. The first few days, Daryl had been tentative, only coming over when expressly invited, and careful to leave everything in the same disorganized mess that it had been on that first night.

Then, as if some switch had been flipped, Daryl had decided that they weren't going to throw him out for cleaning up a bit, and taken the hell over.

Aaron had looked up from the office desk the next morning to see three of the Georgia crew toting in new shelving units, carefully arranging them under Daryl's raspy-voiced guidance. Over the next two days, Daryl shifted the garage's whole contents from east to west, and then back again, adding a significant chunk of Henry's motor supplies and several repurposed milk crates, now filled to overflowing with various…things.

At some point, a sleeping bag and a battered messenger bag had made their way onto the shelf under the west window. Aaron wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that, just yet.

He wasn't thinking on it too hard though, as keeping Eric from falling on his ass on the concrete – and probably pulling one of the shelves over on top of him – took most of Aaron's attention.

The rest of it was trying to restrain himself from calling Eric out on his bullshit attempt to pretend that he had no real idea what Daryl had been doing with the second bike. Three days ago, the second bike had been a mass of scattered tubing and gears. Now it was three distinct parts, plus a few random bits, and it was clear that not only had Daryl been telling Eric what he was planning with the bike, but Eric had paid attention to something mechanical for more than the thirteen seconds it took to work a coffeemate.

It was enough to make even the most secure husband just a hair concerned.

"He's going to have to shorten up the spokes, but that's not a big deal. Re-jiggering the chain, that was something. Look, here –" Eric pointed insistently until Aaron knelt and looked at the tubular frame. Or what he imagined was the frame of the bike. There was the forward stem, and a swooping double curve angled back and down. "See? The engine block goes here, on that painted plate, and then the chain has to bypass the footrests…I mean, I think it will. Daryl will think of something, I bet."

"Something." Aaron stood again.

"You know I never appreciated the work details you told me about – like the wells and how to keep old Land Rovers running." Eric huffed his way across the garage. "It just never seemed like a real effort, you know? You'd just get someone in who knew how to fix the whatever, and then it'd be good. But watching Daryl…" At the far corner, Eric tugged an old rag off a stool and sat down with a sigh.

"Watching Daryl?"

"Watching him work – it's as though he's…you know, pleasant, when he's got his hands on something. As if just putting one piece of metal on another was important. It's…inspiring."

"Inspiring."

Eric ignored his tone. "Carol actually said it – and then Maggie too. I have to say that the bike is probably your best idea all year. They're all so happy Daryl has something to work on. At first, he had this motorcycle that used to belong to his brother – a horrible big black noisy thing, with all sorts of nasty nazi stuff on it. That got lost when they left their old home, after they were attacked. Now –" Eric held out a hand, indicating the broad array of greasy parts and carefully arranged tools. "He's got something to do, something he's good at, something that's not easy, and he's riding again."

"Un-huh."

And that finally got Eric's attention back on Aaron again. His eyes narrowed. Deliberately, Eric shifted his weight on the stool, straightening his back and spreading his knees. "C'mere," he said, and this time it was the really irresistible voice, because no one but Eric had ever talked like that to Aaron.

Aaron swallowed. He shook his head.

The corner of Eric's mouth twitched. With his good foot, he shoved the stool back against the shelving and then spread his arms, bracing his elbows on the shelf. "Come here."

And this time he did. Three stumbling steps across the garage, jerking Eric up and into his arms, Eric's hands closing on his hips and his ass, grinding against him in the new pattern, the one they'd had to learn new since the accident. Eric's mouth on his, on Aaron's jaw, his voice in Aaron's ear, growling, "Take me to bed, or lose me forever."

Halfway across the garage they stumbled, shins slamming into the workbench. The half-completed frame slid off the shelf with a screech and crashed on the concrete, dragging a can of acetone with it. Eric jerked back, his hands entangled in Aaron's collar. The box of wrenches tipped over and poured out a double handful of dropped-forged stainless steel. Aaron started to go to his knees, but stopped with Eric's belt still not undone, staring at the dark filthy mess of the spilled oil pan.

"Hey," Eric said, ran his hand over Aaron's jaw. Aaron looked up, his breath coming hard. Eric stared back at him, his hand hard on the skin of Aaron's face.

"Fix it later," Eric said. "Take care of _me_ now."

* * *

 _Eric –_

 _I wrote about all the people because I thought you'd like to hear about them, you know? And they are what I spend most of my time on – getting people connected, figuring out what people want, what they need, who to trust, how far they'll go to get something._

 _It's something I'm good at. We've got engineers, and nurses, and a couple accountants (okay, they're not as good as you, but they try) and I can read a level and bandage a cut and file an expense report. We all help out. But the people are my thing._

 _…I'm really lousy at the 'not talking about work' thing, aren't I?_

 _Okay, then. It's sunset, we're waiting on the water run to come back so there can be supper and baths. They left most of an hour ago, so it ought to be any time now, unless they got a flat. I miss the wetter areas, where the drive to water isn't so far, but not the bugs._

 _The sky is blue, pale blue, pale bluely green, and then green, except for a line near the horizon where it's yellow. The sun is red, brilliant red._

 _All the world is dark, except for the lamp that I'm writing this by, and the firepit, and the two flashlights that Roy and Kim and Peace and Steve are using to play cards by. They've already called me over twice, because Kim cheats unless I'm there to watch._

 _And now I'm talking about people again, even if it's just my coworkers, and not the locals. So I'm going to close this, and put it in the bag to go back to the city tomorrow with us when Roy and Peace and I go check on the Ministry permits. If the permits don't come through, there will probably be another letter soon. If they do – well, we'll have work to do._

 _Even if I don't write, I'll be thinking about you. Stay warm, back there in the snow._

 _Yours,_

 _Aaron_

* * *

The sun was much lower when Aaron eased the downstairs bedroom door shut behind him.

Eric lay still asleep on their bed – on the spare bed, which was all Eric could manage. The nightmares had decreased, but Eric still woke two nights out of five, complaining about his aching ankle. Aaron had slept as well, for an hour or so, and had woken with the afterimage of dark dreams still heavy on his sight.

They weren't nightmares – not like the shuddering terrors that Eric had for the first few nights after being trapped under the car. These were old, almost familiar.

In the dream, Aaron had been back in the DRC, and they'd come to Red Frog Crossing, just as his team had, seven years ago. But this time, they hadn't arrived four hours too late, and found the bodies piled under the village tree, flies gathered round, and the blood dried black as the skins of the dead.

This time, they'd been in Red Frog when the sun rose, him and Eric, and the bandits had found them there, with the village chief and his daughters and his grandsons.

Aaron rubbed his face, checked the door again, and made his way across the living room.

 _Too early for supper._ And slamming pans around would just wake Eric. The image of Eric's face under a machete blade swam up unbidden. Aaron bypassed the kitchen and opened the door to the garage.

The wreckage was less spectacular than he had feared – _not thinking too clearly, were you?_ – just a flat pan, holding no more than a half quart of oil, a flat metal plate, still rough around the edges, and a handful of dark metal bits. There was a multi-folded piece of paper – like a wiring diagram – lying with a corner stuck in the murky mess.

Aaron stooped over the pool of oil, his fingers hovering over the scattered bolts.

 _Do it right._ There were a pair of gloves on the middle shelf and a bucket of cat litter cut with sand by the outside door. He slipped on the gloves and tossed down the gravel mix to soak up the oil. The bolts and nuts rattled as he dropped them in the pan, and the pan itself screeched as he slid it back on the table shelf.

He had the broom in one hand when he picked up the oil-smeared paper by one corner. It unfolded like a map, falling out into a wide expanse, nearly six feet square.

He had to put the broom aside to fold the instruction sheet up again – only it wasn't a pre-printed factory distribution, as he had thought.

It was a map of Alexandria – a smaller, more detailed version of the plans Reg Monroe had in his office. Aaron felt his face frowning as he studied the drawing.

Houses clearly marked – and individually labeled, not with the names of their inhabitants, but with ages, and notes about their attributes and skills. Windows, doors, the basement accesses for the row houses. The lookout points, marked with visual fields and…sniping points.

Aaron blinked, looked at the map again, his gut slowly clenching. He'd seen the defensive plans that Spencer had put together – they were shallow, insubstantial notions compared to the robust revetments that he'd seen at the local militia stations in Niger, and almost laughable in context. This was…this was something else. This was cold, merciless assessment of Alexandria, and it was a plan for attack.

For destroying the town, from the inside out.

 _You're being paranoid. It's been so long since you've seen someone with any skill for tactics that you're over reacting._ Aaron passed a hand over his face. _You're seeing things that aren't there._

He shook his head and folded the map. _No._ It was just a map. Just a precaution.

Carefully, Aaron swept up the cat litter and set the folded sheet on the shelf. There was a pack of colored pencils and a grammar-school compass tucked in with the tools. Aaron could vaguely recall Carol at his dining room table, putting away her pencils after a visit with Eric. She'd tucked away a wide sheet of paper as well.

He put the cover back on the oil-soaked litter.

Outside, the early evening continued to ease down towards night – whippoorwills and swifts dancing over the streets, snatching insects as they went. From far beyond the Wall, an owl called.

Aaron stood in the street with the air cool on his bare arms, and thought about going back inside, to the warm kitchen and the warmer bed where Eric slept. But the map had awoken old terrors in him, and old guilts at old fears, and he had never liked bringing that difficult roil of emotion under a roof with Eric.

Down the street, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Rick, walking the Wall.

 _You could just ask him._ It wasn't possible that the map had been constructed without Rick's knowledge, and more likely than not at his explicit direction. Aaron stuck his hands in his pockets and strode down to meet him.

Rick brought his gaze back from the top of the wall as Aaron approached.

"Hi," Aaron said. "What are you up to?"

"Evening," Rick said, his eyes sweeping down the street, then back at the wall.

"A nice night out," Aaron attempted.

Rick shrugged, walked on past Aaron, not even trying for encouraging. His face was set in that flat, hard look – the one that looked through Aaron, through the Wall, at something distant and dangerous. When he reached the next angle in the wall, Rick stopped and turned around. He looked at the top of the wall again, at the lookout nest in the corner, and then over to the church tower. His eyes flicked over Aaron and then away again.

When Rick turned and walked away again, Aaron realized the Georgia leader was counting paces.

Aaron shivered, beyond what the chill of the air warranted.

When he reached the door to his house, dusk had settled, and there was no way to see anyone moving in the gloom.

When Eric came out, he had the olive oil gently heating, and the paring knife was moving smoothly over the wild onions. Eric shuffled his way from handhold to handhold, ending up draped over Aaron's back with both hands linked across Aaron's middle.

After a long time, while the knife continued to rasp against the cutting board, Aaron said, "I fucked up."

Eric snorted. "You're still a good lay."

"I shouldn't have brought in the Georgia crew. They aren't the right sort."

That surprised Eric. After a moment, he said, "You've been second-guessing yourself for a week now. And I still don't see why."

Aaron shook his head and kept slicing peppers. Eric tightened his arms before releasing Aaron and making his way to the breakfast bar and the stool there.

Seated, he said, "Talk to me."

And like always, Aaron did.

"I thought – you know how far I followed them. You know all the things I heard – not just the words, but the way they worked together, the dynamics. They're dangerous, and they take care of their own."

"Sounds like people we need," Eric noted. "Don't we?"

Aaron set the knife down carefully. Hunched over the cutting board, he said, "I'm going on a supply run tomorrow. On my list of 'things to get' is a fucking _pasta machine_. I'm going with a man who can hear the difference between roamers and live people from two hundred feet. We need these people, _we need them like we need air_."

He threw the onions in the pan, stirred furiously.

"And?" Eric said, when Aaron didn't go on.

"But they don't need us. And I don't think they're going to accept us." When Eric would have scoffed, Aaron waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, they took care of you. And they were in bad shape when we found them. But they were making it. Any of _us_ –" the knife in his hand waved, encompassing all of walled Alexandria "- any of us, we would have been dead a month before."

"Aaron, bandy, they saved me. They didn't know who I was, they didn't care."

"Now they do." He half turned, fixed Eric with an eye. "You heard the stories they told. These were small-town people, out of Georgia, for Christ's sake, or Texas. They aren't our kind of people. And no matter how well we accept them, they aren't going to return the favor."

"Aaron –" This time it was Eric's turn to break off, staring at the cabinets. When he began again, his voice was quiet. "You know, sometimes I forget that you never were in Minneapolis all that much. That you weren't with us on the campus outreach, or at Rude Awakenings, all those nights, arguing over everything. That you didn't know everyone.

"You know when I was dating Toby – shut up, you know I'm over him, and it's not like you were ever a good font of legal advice – he was very big on first amendment stuff. All that free speech."

"Freedom for assholes to be assholes." Toby had been a radical libertarian lawyer, one of Eric's circle before Aaron had bumped into a narrow shouldered man in a Westwood jacket, at a bookshop in Nicollet. Six months later, Toby'd left Minneapolis for a think –tank in DC and a dusky-skinned attaché from Lebanon.

The first letter Aaron had ever gotten from Eric, had been about Toby.

"That." Eric shifted in his seat, turning over the spare garlic clove in his fingers.

Aaron concentrated on cutting up peppers. After the third one – the peppers from the garden were small and crumpled, compared to the huge bells of distant memory – he looked up to find Eric still staring at him.

"What?"

Eric hesitated, looked down at his hand, gently cupping the dry shell of the garlic skin. This time, it wasn't an old boyfriend he quoted. "What world are we building?"

Aaron dropped his gaze back down to the cutting board. "That's playing dirty."

"Listen to me." Eric leaned forward, his elbows on the granite and his eyes boring into Aaron. "What are we making here? What do you want, for the way forward? And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You nod and smile at Deanna, but that world that she wants – that's not what you're looking for. You know we can't go back to that world."

"In case you haven't noticed, we're really fucking short of train tracks around here." Aaron regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Eric sat back and folded his arms. "Look, I'm sorry. But we don't have room for everyone here. You know how poisonous it would be, to let in the wrong kinds of people."

"Which ones are you going to throw out? Daryl, for being an anti-social ass who's twitchy around strangers? Because I tell you, you make him leave, and Carol's going with him. You want to push a sweet gal like that out into the roamers?" Aaron pursed his lips, clenched his jaw around the retort, _yes, if I thought it would keep you safe_.

He rubbed his nose, set down the knife. Didn't slam it. "Wait here."

He went down into the garage and found the folded map easily in the last of the daylight. On his way back in, he remembered to shut the garage door.

"Here." He jerked a towel off the rack, threw it on the counter beside Eric. "This is what Daryl is. And Carol. And Rick."

Eric stared at the map, brow creased. Aaron sighed, took the sheet of paper and flipped it end for end. "No, other way around."

It was gratifying to see Eric finally blink in surprise when he took in the diagram and the marginalia in front of him. Aaron left him to it and turned to the sink to wash his hands.

"Is this it? This is what set you off? Is that it?"

"Isn't it enough? Your hot crush's honey is drawing diagrams for taking down this community! For killing us all!"

Eric blinked and leaned back, his fingers holding the pale page down on the counter. "So. Talk me thorough this. You found this in the garage?"

"Stuck in with the motorcycle parts."

"Bandy, even I can figure that out. Okay, what else was there? Thumbscrews? A _'50 ways to kill your neighbors'_ pamphlet? Skinning racks?"

Aaron glared. "You're mocking me. Again."

"No, I'm not. I'm seriously asking why you can't put this back and go on living your life as if you hadn't seen it."

"You don't know…"Aaron trailed off as another recollection of Africa swam up in his memory.

Niger, again, and a construction project – a meeting hall, built by local carpenters with money Aaron had cajoled out of the alumni of Eric's business school.

The carpenters had begun every day with a prayer. The project had been approved with the strict requirement that it be a secular town hall/market center, and not primarily a church. (Aaron had protested the restriction as outside the scope of his priorities for the area, but the donors had been insistent. No God in their business schemes.) But the building crew had been more…devious than Aaron had expected. The rafters had been erected on site, and each end had received special attention. The cut ends of the boards had been carefully marked with crosses where the roof ridge met the supports.

Aaron had asked the crew foreman about the markings. _Why go through so much trouble?_

 _It is to mark the house, so that God may work His will here._

Aaron had shaken his head. _The crosses are hidden. No one would see the markings._

The foreman had smiled tolerantly. _Is no matter. God will see them_ , he had said, and then turned back to the work.

"I'd know it was there." He couldn't unsee it – Rick pacing out distances, Carol's notes in the margin, and Daryl's bandit gaze – always checking the exits, always looking for trinkets worth looting.

Eric stared at him. Aaron clenched his teeth. "I'd know it was there. Whether or not anyone else ever did, _I'd know it_."

Eric pursed his lips, nodded slowly. "And you knowing, that means…what? That Daryl's a paranoid anti-social freak, that Carol actually eats children alive, that Rick's a murderer? You told me we could trust these people, Aaron! Are you telling me you're _wrong_?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"First time since yesterday."

The attempted humor fell flat. Aaron went back to cutting up vegetables. Eric levered himself upright and made himself useful, setting the table.

* * *

 _Dear Eric –_

 _For the record, I am neither paranoid nor a worrywart. There's a difference between being cautious and being crazy. And I think it's a crap move on your part to pull that "why aren't you more of an optimist" stuff on me. I've seen your face when you read the WSJ, trust-fund boy. You're just as aware of the bubble as the rest of us._

 _And speaking of bubbles…_

 _Things are easier here, now. It's like a switch has been flipped, and things are starting to fall in place. We're getting hassled a lot less by privateers, and (ironically) even more by the army, but at least the army's *here* to give us trouble. And the soldiers haven't started demanding bribes just yet. Paul says that's the next thing. He says it like it's inevitable, and the key thing is how outrageous the demands get, before either the elected government cleans house, or the army goes ahead and takes over._

 _So if I'm at all a pessimist, I come by it naturally – everyone I work with is worse._

 _I am to tell you that the Anzak (is that how you spell it?) cookies were awesome and that you should send more. I do hope you at least got the recipe from Mrs Clark, because I didn't manage to hold on to more than three cookies._

 _If things continue at this pace, we may finish up here early and shift over to Rivers province. Not sure if that means I'll be extended or will come home early. Hopefully I'll know in time to write._

 _Going to close now, because otherwise I'll start talking about that French restaurant and that fruit-stuffed brie we had. And I don't have enough paper to describe how much I miss good cheese._

 _Yours –_

 _Aaron_

* * *

"About the Georgia crew…" Aaron trailed off, speared a slice of banana pepper. When Eric grunted an inquiry, Aaron went on.

"I don't – I don't know how much I want them wandering by all the time. When I'm gone."

Eric put a forkful of noodles in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Finally he said, "You have cancer."

Aaron stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"Yesterday," Eric said, enunciating clearly in the way he only did when he was really pissed, "you wanted to have Noah or Tara or Father Gabriel to be sleeping here as my beck-and-call boy. Or girl." He stabbed at his plate and didn't look at Eric. "Over the last eight days, I've seen far more of Daryl in the daylight than I have of you. Which means that I've had Rick, Michonne, and Carol over here two and five times a day, just to 'check up' on me. Today, I had quite a number of nice people come by and keep me company while you were out doing important things before you leave tomorrow. Some of them, I should remind you, who are coming close to being friends. And so tonight you decide that you don't want my friends coming over while you are out gallivanting across the countryside with Mr Hunky Hunkerson."

Aaron stared, his mouth frankly hanging open. Eric blew a breath out, and, finally, met Aaron's eyes. "And so either you've decided to turn into the kind of raging asshole that I never would have ever considered fucking, much less marrying, or else you've got a brain tumor and you're going insane." He speared a pepper and popped it in his mouth, chewing. "I choose the better option. If you're going insane because of a brain tumor, I can smother you in your sleep and take flowers to your grave on Saturdays."

Aaron put his fork down. "I'm sorry."

Eric sighed, poked around until he found another pepper. "There were several people didn't come by today, actually. Janice Rosenstein, among others."

And like always, there wasn't much to say to that. Janice and her sister had come by to invite Eric to Shabbat the second week they'd been in Alexandria, and walked in on a make-out session on the granite countertops. Maria had stayed friendly enough, but Janice hadn't spoken to either of them in twenty-one months.

Aaron scowled at his plate and used the heel of the bread to soak up the last of the olive oil. "I can put _rabbi_ back on the _grab it you see it_ list," he said, finally.

Eric snorted. "Only if you can get two, and make sure at least one is Reform."

They spent the rest of the evening packing his bags, like they had for years. Eric picked the shirts for how they hung on Aaron's shoulders and the pullovers to match. Aaron took out the ones in unlucky colors and put the pants with extra pockets back in. Eric stole half of his handkerchiefs and Aaron pretended not to notice. Eric put toilet paper in ziplock bags, along with socks and underwear. He also stuck in an extra pack of condoms. Aaron took them out, tossed them to the side.

"Hey," Eric protested. "You might need those."

"No, I won't."

"What if the bandit chief only agrees to follow you back if you sleep with her?"

"Then I guess Daryl's going to have to man up."

Eric sighed. "I foresee a lack of bandits agreeing to join us." He settled for replacing the condoms with a travel sized bottle of AX body spray. Aaron let it pass.

Then it was after eleven, and everything had been repacked twice, and there was nothing left to do but go to bed.

Midway through the night, the clouds cleared away and Aaron woke to find moonlight soaking the bedspread. He lay for a long time, watching the shudder of the shadow of leaves, and listening to Eric's quiet snores.

When he went to sleep, he dreamt of insects beating against the bug net, and the sound of dogs barking in the next homestead, and Eric, a long way down the road, walking towards him slow and steady.

The next morning, Aaron shut off the windup alarm clock before sunrise and slipped out from under Eric's arm. He sat for a moment with his feet on the floor, watching Eric to see if he awoke. Eric only snorted once, and buried his head deeper into the pillow.

Aaron found his laid-out clothes and eased the door shut quietly, letting the latch close like the pop of a soap bubble. He showered upstairs, indulged in a fresh shave, and dressed quickly. In the kitchen, he put on coffee before flipping on the garage lights and raising the garage door. Daryl's sleeping bag was still tucked up under the bench, same as it had been the night before.

Old Paint sat in the driveway, back end pointed at the interior of the house like a hip-shot mule.

Aaron rubbed his face. No _. I can not handle this without caffeine._ He went back into the house, leaving the door open.

He thought about pancakes – they had mix, and some of Jerry Brown's goat milk – but decided against. _When I come back_. Instead he brought water to a boil, added three cups of oatmeal, and turned it off with the lid on, like his mother had always had done.

The map sat on the sideboard, marked side facing up. Aaron took a cautious sip of the coffee and stared at the paper.

There was no intent on the page, no purpose. It was just a map. _Whatever's there, it's of your own making._

He put the mug down with sharp rap on the counter and snatched up the sheet, marching out to the garage, folding it as he went. This time, he remembered to grab a rag before lifting the oil pan and sliding the paper back in place, under the plastic.

He stared down at the shelf, shifted the oil pan over a tick, and stared at it another moment.

Anyone could look at the mess on the floor and guess that the oil pan had been moved.

 _The hell with it_. He went back in the house to arm himself with coffee before tackling packing the car.

The truck responded to muttered threats and a light fist tap next to the lock. The box of foodstuff slid well forward, leaving plenty of room for the sleeping bags and the tent tarps. The extra tire and the jug of fuel also fit, but that left no room for the water bottle or the first aid kit.

Aaron gave up on trying to shift the tarps one-handed and set the five gallon tub down with a thump and scowled into the trunk. He bent and retrieved the mug only to find the last of the coffee cold and bitter. A pair of feet appeared in his vision just as he was straightening up.

"Your face is gonna freeze like that," a voice said, nearly inside the garage. Aaron jumped, but he did keep hold of the coffee mug. Mustering the shreds of his dignity, he turned with a practiced smile on his face.

"Good morning, Daryl, Carol."

"Sorry," Carol said. She didn't sound sorry. She did stand well within the seven-and-a-half-foot radius that Daryl considered a reasonable limit to a man's personal space. Close enough, actually, that Daryl's elbow was brushing against hers. She stood with folded arms and looked back at Aaron with that closed off expression he had come to expect from her.

Daryl just smirked, slouching forward to peer inside the trunk. "Fuck, man, if I'd known you were gonna start packing so early, I'd'a gotten here sooner."

Aaron was already looking at Carol, so he caught the flicker of her eyes as she looked over at Daryl. Was that…fond amusement? Or…

 _Getting as bad as Eric_. "It's no trouble. And I didn't know if you were going to need more help with the bike this morning or not."

"Nah, she's all set." Daryl blew out a breath, squared his shoulders. "Got my stuff –" A backpack hung from one shoulder, while Carol carried a messenger bag. "So soon as you're ready, we can roll."

"Well, ah," Aaron looked over his shoulder at the door to the house. "I'm almost ready. Would you like coffee?"

"We don't want to be a bother…" Carol said, and in the same breath, Daryl said, firmly, "Hell yeah."

"Okay, if you'll figure out how to secure the water, I'll get a couple mugs." And look in on Eric, and write a note if the slugabed wasn't awake yet…

"Hey," Eric said, from the doorway. His shirt hung open, but he had the crutches up under his arms. "Pulling out now?"

There was a stupid sloppy smile on his face, Aaron knew, because he was looking at Eric, face creased with sleep and his hair a mess, and Eric was looking back at him, and there was an equally stupid smile on Eric's lovely, beloved, beautiful face.

"No, Hussy," he said, regardless of Daryl and Carol standing behind him. "Not yet."

"Good." Eric maneuvered the crutches off the threshold. "I'll drink coffee with you, before you go."

Aaron made eggs to go with the oatmeal. Eric ate his, as dainty as Carol, watching Aaron the whole time.

At the door, Eric asked Carol, "Going down to the gate to see them off?"

Carol shook her head. "No, we already said good-bye." And then she blushed, looking at her feet.

"Well, if it's good enough for you, I guess it'll work for us," Eric said. He nodded at Aaron. "Take care, jungle boy. Don't get eaten by the crocodiles."

Just like it was another trip, like all the trips before the end of the world. Aaron laughed. "Don't drown in your numbers, banker-man," he said, and hugged Eric fast, one handed. A quick brush of his lips on Eric's forehead. Both of them swayed as Eric rocked on his crutches. Aaron held Eric's shoulder for a minute, neither of them looking at each other.

"I've got him." Aaron looked up, blinking fast, as Carol stepped close and wrapt an arm around Eric. "You boys go on now." Her eyes shifted, meeting Daryl's for a moment. "Be careful."

Daryl snorted, "Stay safe," and turned on his heel for the bike.

Eric's hand slipped from Aaron's.

As he climbed into the car, he risked one look back at Carol, standing in the doorway with Eric. She raised her voice as Aaron started the car, "Bring him back in one piece! I'm tired of patching his clothes!"

Aaron drove away with Eric laughing in his rearview mirror.

* * *

 _Dearest –_

 _You were right. I did hate Africa when I left._

 _I don't, right now – and not just because damnit, I was right, it's too big of a place, too many people, too much history, too much now, to hate all together. Because it is._

 _I stepped off the plane and it was like landing in Atlanta – humidity and backwardness and dark skins all around. (I need to get you out of Minneapolis, Eric, learn to live in a real city, with real diversity.) And it then it started going down hill – the bribes are outrageous here, and the taxi driver didn't speak English, French, or Swahili, and there was construction on the main highway, so we had to spend another two hours tracking around._

 _I got to the airport, finally, and on the mission flight, and now I'm out north of the border. And it has all come back – the dust and the roads and the smiling people and the crushing lack of anything._

 _I am making a difference here. My work is making the lives of these people better. What I'm doing, it's important. There was a woman – I forgot to tell you this – Her name is Natarakara, all the women are named Na-something. She came up to see me, in the last days of the dry trip. She had gone down to the city, looking for work, and got caught up in one of the gangs down there. Got pregnant, she said she didn't know who the father was. Was using drugs, at least a little. And didn't see a way out. She was alone in the city, just a few other refugees from the region in the same squatter's hut on the side of the road. Her, her son, and these other third cousins twice removed._

 _She's back in the village now. Someone came through the squatter's camp, and told them a story they'd heard here – that some crazy white guys were promising to put in a well, and shore up that mile of road through the swamp – and she came back, over a thousand kilometers on foot, carrying her baby, because we were putting in the well, and the road, so the traders could come in._

 _I told you they don't name the babies until they're a year old, right? Her baby had its first birthday the week before we left. She named it Aaron._

 _Because the well did go in. The road is still not done, we had a fucking flat in the middle of it two days ago, complete mess, but it's better than it was. And she's with some cousins, and trying to raise stupid ducks – the red headed ones – and it's still a mess and I don't know if little Aaron is going to be alive five years from now._

 _But this is what I do. What I do now – I make promises and build dream castles and sometimes I can make it happen and sometimes it's just, just airy fucking nothing._

 _But I'm rolling rocks up a hill. I don't know if the well is going to last, or if some bunch of idiots is going to sink a shaft two miles away and break the aquifer. I don't know if we're going to get an influx of refugees that will overwhelm what they've got here, bring in more people and cows and maybe some cars and then we'll have raids and fighting. Or the fucking cholera will spread over here. Or some crazy cow disease. Or if someone further up the chain will say something idiotic to the Minister of the Interior again and we'll all get thrown out._

 _Or if I'll come home and you'll be tired of waiting, and will have gone on and made a life without me._

 _I can live with all the rest. I can live with loving Africa and then tolerating it and then hating it and then falling back in love with it when I come back._

 _I can't make it without you. Not any more._

 _I can keep doing this – I want to keep doing this. But I can't take what it does to us. Not now, not when it seems like I – like we finally have a shot at something._

 _I'm going to meet with Roy tomorrow, tell him to start training up Bryson to replace me. I'm stepping off the rotation after this trip – not permanently, just for a while._

 _Long enough for us to be building a life._

 _So what I guess I'm saying is, figure out if there's room for my stuff at your place, or start looking for a larger apartment. Because if you're with me, I'm in this for the long haul._

* * *

 **The End**

* * *

 _Setting:_ Set in and around S5E13. Strictly the fault of The Readers Muse and her pathetic begging for more Aaron/Eric.

 _A/N:_ Warnings for language, mentions of homophobia disillusionment of NGO aid workers, disdain for first world problems, and harsh judgment against Merle Dixon when he isn't even there to defend himself. Thanks to Lamport and the best beta eva (tm) for helping me work through this one.

Title courtesy of Terry Pratchett, by way of the long way around.

I will not go so far as to say that every international aid worker ever has expressed, at some point, the feelings that Aaron expresses in this story. I will say that I have never met one who has not admitted to some version of this. Most of the time, they confess to feelings more intense, hostile, and profane. (And that includes members of the religion-affiliated groups.) The Work is hard, and It will consume one, belch, and go looking for another idealist to maul. One learns to live with the limitations of fallible mortals, including the one seen reflected in the basin of wash water.

Thank you for reading this. Concrit and feedback of all sorts gladly accepted.


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